


On a Lack of Eyebrows and Other Unsettling Items

by story_monger



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 23:05:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8032537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_monger/pseuds/story_monger
Summary: Against towering odds, all members of the U.S.S. Hephaestus are alive and accounted for. That doesn't mean Commander Minkowski isn't worried about her people, especially the one currently lacking in any discernible keratin. The one who still insists on calling her commander.  Post-"Sécurité"





	On a Lack of Eyebrows and Other Unsettling Items

“Commander, I know I’m a stunning example of male beauty, but you can stop staring anytime you feel like it.”

“You look really weird without your eyebrows,” Minkowski replies dully. Eiffel frowns—which, again, looks _really weird_ without eyebrows—then nods.

“I’m gonna be straight with you,” he says. “I haven’t looked at a mirror since…yeah.”

“Good thinking,” Lovelace calls out from the other end of the room. “I’d say keep doing that.”

“Your bedside manner knows no bounds,” Eiffel calls back. Lovelace gives a thumb up without looking away from her console. Minkowski has no clue what she’s doing over there, but she also isn’t inclined to ask at the moment. At the moment, she wants to crawl into her cot and descend into a coma for a few months. Not that she can afford anything that luxurious, but she can dream. A few hours will do for now.

“All right.” Minkowski says, pushing herself up from the chair where she’s been spending the last few hours of their off-work time trying to hash out possible plans for Operation Stick It To U.S.S Urinal (Eiffel’s name, naturally, and not one of his better ones, which if nothing else indicates how rough he’s had it). It’s their third such meeting since first boarding the Urania, and at this point Minkowski is viewing them more as morale-boosting exercises than actual productive meetings. Hilbert hadn’t been lying: these SI-5 creeps don’t let a lot slip past them.

Still, they haven’t gotten this far by giving up as soon as things look certifiably impossible. And besides that, there’s a certain comfort to be had in gathering her people (well, most of her people. Hilbert is busy doing inventory of his equipment, supposedly, and Hera is…Hera is silent at the moment. Minkowski tries not to dwell on that) in one room and letting everyone just talk. Even if Lovelace is curled up in one corner and half ignoring them, at least she’s _there_. Tonight, that leaves Eiffel and Minkowski to toss around truly shit mutiny plans, and that’s being said after many months full of shit plans.

“We done for the night?” Eiffel asks, raising non-existent eyebrows. That’s creepy, too.

“If we’re discussing your lack of body hair, yes, we’re done,” Minkowski says. She glances to Lovelace. “Will you share whatever that is once you’re ready?”

“If I think it’s worth sharing, sure,” Lovelace says. And Minkowski would sooner stick her head in the cold vacuum of space than admit it, but she’s deeply grateful Lovelace is more or less on their side and more or less taking command of something. Minkowski has been left so _tired_ after all the bureaucratic paces Kepler’s been putting her through.

Eiffel stands as well, and it’s hard not to notice the way his limbs shake. Which is worrying. The ship’s gravity well isn’t very strong, maybe on par with the moon. Eiffel shouldn’t be having issues supporting his weight at all. He must notice Minkowski watching because he shoots her one of his small, quick smiles and starts walking with a slight limp. Minkowski is reminded of a stray dog in her old neighborhood, the one with a mangled paw that used to follow people around with a hopeful tilt to its head. She almost groans aloud.

“You following Hilbert’s prescriptions?” she asks as they exit the room and make the short walk down the hall to the dormitories.

“To the letter,” Eiffel says. “Under duress, I’ll add.”

“Duly noted.”

“Thanks.” A few seconds pass in silence, and Eiffel says, “Should I really avoid looking in a mirror?”

Minkowski has to restrain from wincing. “Um.”

“That bad, huh?”

Damnit. Damnit, she’s supposed to help lead Eiffel through this, right?

“I don’t know that it would do anything for you,” she says carefully.

“Well, okay, here’s the question though. Do I look like Voldemort?

Minkowski blinks. “You have a nose, still,” she says slowly. “So no, it’s not quite that bad.”

“Commander!”

“What?”

“You know of Harry Potter?” Eiffel is giving that massive, shit-eating grin that Minkowski hates and also came very close to never seeing again. “You mean to say you’re somewhat engaged in modern western culture? Be still my heart.”

“Good lord,” she mutters, picking up her pace to pull ahead.

“Movies or books?” Eiffel presses, unperturbed. “Or both?”

“I read the books,” Minkowski snaps back at him. “And I’ve seen a few of the movies on TV.” She pauses. “It’s Harry Potter, Eiffel, I don’t think I was going to function as a human without knowing of it.”

“You know, Commander, if anyone could manage it, it’d be you.” Minkowski rolls her eyes and at the same moment registers that the words are a bit fainter than a moment before. She turns, and Eiffel is leaning against one of the walls, hands to his chest.

“Eiff—“

“Fine, just a tickle.” Eiffel straightens and grins again, though this time it has trouble reaching his eyes. “A little freezer burn leftover, I think.” Lungs aren’t supposed to have freezer burn. Minkowski starts walking again.

“Ok, so I’m not Voldemort,” Eiffel says, almost keeping pace with her. “Lex Luthor?”

“I don’t know that person.”

“Ach, should have expected it. Dr. Evil?”

“No.”

“You know Austin Powers and not basic superhero lore?”

“My husband owns all the movies.”

“Incredible. I’m definitely meeting this man when we get back.” Minkowski ignores the pang in her gut. Another few paces, and they start to draw even with the dormitory doors. Minkowski checks on Eiffel again out of instinct and this time manages to catch an actual expression of disquiet. This must seriously be bothering him. Which is fair; Minkowski is attached to her hair and nails as well.

“I have a mirror,” she says, pausing in front of her room’s doors. Eiffel slows, stops, and squints at her.

“And?”

“And, come use it so you know how bad it is and get it over with.” Oh, look at that, Eiffel is _hesitating_. Something very much like pity presses up against Minkowski’s chest. “Not that it’s all that bad,” she continues. “The bald look isn’t so awful, it’s more the lack of eyebrows that makes it freaky.” A few seconds after that little gem leaves her mouth, she considers that it was not the most comforting thing to say. Eiffel, though, laughs. Of course he does.

“I like you when you’re tired,” he says. “You start to sound downright human.”

“Don’t start, Officer Eiffel.”

“I’m not, I’m not.” He visibly hesitates then adds, “I might take you up on the mirror, though.”

Minkowski is mostly certain that all the bathrooms have mirrors, but maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the point is to have someone there when you face some of the repercussions of excessive cryo. She can do that for him, if nothing else.

“Well then.” She turns stiffly and opens the door to her new quarters. (Not that she asked for new quarters, but Kepler _advised_ that they move onto the Urania until “the Hephaestus is not quite so close to falling apart.” Asshole.) It’s still fairly sterile, but she’s conceded to moving a few of her personal items, including a small handheld mirror that she originally brought under the impression she’d have the time and patience and energy to occasionally indulge in makeup. That’s a laugh right there. But she’s kept the mirror because it’s _hers_ and it’s _familiar_ , and she can use that on the Urania. The Urinal.

“Hang on,” Minkowski says, clattering open a drawer. In the corner of her eye, she can see Eiffel lower himself, slowly, onto her bunk. He moves like an old man. She snatches up the mirror and strides to the bunk, sinking down beside Eiffel and pressing the mirror into his hands. He lets it hang between his knees, not moving.

“I…” he starts, then stops and swipes a tongue over dry lips. “I don’t want to look.”

“You don’t have to.” Her voice sounds too loud in the small room, alongside his small voice.

“I should. Should own up to the consequences of my dumbass plan.”

“It wasn’t a _dumbass plan_ , officer,” Minkowski snaps. “It was what you had to do given the circumstances.” Eiffel cracks a smile.

“I feel like you or Lovelace or Hilbert would have come up with something better, Commander.”

“I sort of doubt it.” She frowns. “And don’t call me commander, not when I was the one who sent you out there, got you in that mess in the first place.”

“Oh, geeze, the mea culpa again. It wasn’t your fault, _Commander_.”

“You’re actually five years old, do you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

“I made a poor decision,” Minkowski presses forward because she needs to say this at some point and she’s going to lose her window soon. “I shouldn’t have taken the one crewmember who hasn’t tried to kill me, the one I owe the most to, and stuck him in a death trap.” She could keep going about how it was like functioning without one of her limbs to not have him around acting incompetent and infuriating and as a single friendly, trusting face among a semi-mutinous crew. She could say that. She doesn’t.

Eiffel seems to consider her words. “Yeah, except I’d be dead a few times over if it weren’t for you anyway, so I think it’s in your jurisdiction to stick me in a few more death traps.”

“Eiffel?”

“Yeah, Commander?”

“I don’t want to hear another word about you and death traps anytime in the future.”

“Understood, Commander.”

“Look in the mirror.”

“Um.”

“Come on, rip off the Band-Aid.”

“I…” Eiffel grimaces then swings the mirror up. Minkowski tries to deconstruct the expressions flitting across her communications officer’s face.

“Wow,” Eiffel says after almost half a minute. “Yeah, you’re right, the no-eyebrows thing is creepy as hell.”

“It lends you gravitas,” Minkowski tries.

“No, it makes me look like a denizen of the undead. Oh and look, jutting cheekbones. Never had _those_ in my life.” Eiffel shrugs and hands the mirror back. “Okay, well, now I know why people keep looking at me with horrified fascination.”

“They do not.”

“Commander, I am not blind despite contrary evidence.”

Minkowski deflates and accepts the mirror. Eiffel doesn’t immediately stand. They sit together in silence, Eiffel contemplating the floor, Minkowski contemplating the side of his face. He’s not wrong: the weight loss is almost as unnerving as the eyebrows.

“Sorry,” Eiffel murmurs. “Making sure my legs aren’t going to give out under me as soon as I stand up.”

“Want to stay here for a bit?”

And with that, she’s pretty much flown past whatever remained of the proper line between a commander and her crew. She doesn’t much care.

“That might happen whether I want it to or not,” Eiffel says, looking embarrassed now.

“Come on,” Minkowski hops off the cot and sets her mirror on the bedside table. Eiffel looks this close to arguing, but in the end allows her to spread a blanket over his lap and push him against the wall.

“What about you?” Eiffel asks.

“Not that tired; I’ll read for a bit.” Lies. Blatant lies. But if Eiffel is going to keep being pig-headed about calling her commander, she’ll keep acting as his commander and make sure he’s damn well rested before trying to stand. See, this is the most annoying thing about Eiffel: he possesses a certain lost, imprinting duckling quality that makes leaders out of the people around him whether they like it or not. It’s the same quality that makes him proclaim that he’ll see the heat death of the universe before she stops being his commander, and it’s sweet, but it’s stupid on his part, and it’s terrifying on her part, and sometimes she wishes he’d cut it out, but occasionally she’s grateful for it beyond comprehensive thought. She’s still deciding whether his willingness to trust her is a blessing or a huge pain in the ass that’s going to kill all of them one day. Maybe both.

Eiffel already looks two thirds of the way into sleep by the time Minkowski rustles up her navigation manual—she needs to keep up on it if she’s going to continue to justify her usefulness on U.S.S. Urinal—and hops up on the cot beside him. She no-nonsense arranges herself with her back to him, giving him something to lean on. And he takes advantage of it a few seconds later, slumping against her with an almost inaudible sigh. His head lands on the back of her shoulder, and he’s too light.

“You’ll get through it, officer,” Minkowski says without looking up from her manual. “Hair grows back.”

He doesn’t answer. But after a few moments, she feels him press harder against her and nod.

It’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a stupid podcast that has made me cry and laugh and scream all within the space of a half hour which is, frankly, utter bullshit.
> 
> I hope you're happy, Urbina.


End file.
